[August, 1945]
A fabulous week in our history, a new world beginning, the end of the war! Tremendous changes. So much rejoicing. Clamors and celebrations.
Yet we all know war is the cancerous disease of power. I think it was Cocteau who said: "I am not interested in history. I am interested in civilization." History and politics are merely the record of power-evil. We celebrate peace. Yet we pay no attention to the ways of curing aggression in human beings. And when one sees in psychoanalysis hostility disappearing as people conquer their fears, one wonders if the cure is not there. We do not pay attention, because we only pay attention to headlines and the press.
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Edmund Wilson is back from Europe. He is separated from Mary McCarthy. He seems lonely. He portrays himself as a man who has suffered because he loves clever women and "clever women are impossibly neurotic."
As I sat waiting for him at Longchamps, the most banal of all restaurants, I felt that the orange walls were as beautiful as fruit, and the noises and the lights of the summer gay and wonderful.
David I am safe from, from his death-dealing rays. Those who cannot live fully often become destroyers of life.
Neurosis is a kind of death by absence. One bitter man can infect the whole community. Thoese who suffer from inner disturbances are contagious.
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